Property Of:
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: When John demonstrates his fighting skills on a counterfeiting case, Sherlock is suddenly overcome with desires he never expected. Desperate for comments please!
1. Chapter 1

Property of: Chapter 1

I'm fascinated by how John and Sherlock might finally get it together, and this is just one idea I've had. Eventual slash. Please comment, I'd love to know what you think.

They got to the middle of the village, where the war memorial skulked under the lone streetlamp, and the men were nowhere to be seen.

'Damn!' John gasped, bending over to relieve his stitch.

'This is why I hate the country,' Sherlock said, his hands on his hips, scanning every possible exit.

'There!' John was already running again.

Sherlock couldn't believe his friend had rocketed off so quickly, or had any real idea of where he was going, but he took to his heels and followed. It was amazing how the little man could run. His legs must be nearly a foot shorter than Sherlock's but he was always ahead, limbs pumping, head held high, running like a sprinter. It was breath-taking to witness.

Sherlock heard a shout and glanced over his shoulder. The two local bobbies, who had been with them when they caught Morgan and Baker red-handed in the counterfeiting workshop, came skidding around the corner into the square, one stumbling and going down on one knee in his hurry. Country coppers, Sherlock thought derisively. Can't even keep fit.

The skinny detective was not far behind John when he entered a little alley behind the post office. It was narrow, an accident of medieval field boundaries between two stone walls. As Sherlock pounded along, he could glimpse John ahead, the back of his head and shoulders silvered by moonlight as he ran.

Another corner. These bloody winding alleys! Now it was his turn to skid. Then he realised he had come upon a dead end, and the scene in progress was not one even his immense intellect had anticipated.

A fight was going on.

Morgan and Baker, cornered in someone's back yard, hedged in by high Cotswold walls, had decided their best bet was to turn and fight. There was only one man, they had obviously reasoned – two against one was a doddle. It would have been, had their adversary not been a trained commando.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and watched in awe. He had seen John with a gun, seen what he was capable of in the chase, and had benefitted from his abilities as a crack shot. But he had never seen John fight hand to hand.

The doctor often made him sit through ghastly thriller movies where the fights were more like choreographed ballet than real-life brawls. Sherlock knew what it was like to fight in real life – he had been in enough of them - and it was never that pretty. But this was astonishing. Where ever Morgan or Baker threw a punch, John seemed already be there, ahead of them, throwing one back. He slammed home kicks and backwards punches worthy of Baryshnikov. Sherlock had never seen him move so elegantly, or with such deadly precision. Within a minute or two, both men were writhing on the paving, and John was standing in the middle of the carnage, legs spread wide to give the most stable base, one fist drawn back in readiness, the other hand pushed forward, flat out, in defence.

'My God!' Sherlock gasped, and John's head snapped round. Sherlock had never been afraid of him until that moment, but he could see the pupils were wide with adrenaline, pulse throbbing in his friend's neck, and he suddenly hoped that through that red mist, the doctor could identify him as friend and not foe, because if he didn't Sherlock didn't frankly give much for his own chances.

Then John blinked and seemed to stand down, the soldier turned off inside like a light switch. His shoulders relaxed, his legs softened and he became once again mild-mannered, genial Doctor Watson, everybody's favourite GP.

It was dazzling.

The two coppers stumbled in suddenly on the scene, to find two criminals down, one ex-soldier dabbing his lip where a rare blow had connected, and one seriously impressed and awe-struck detective. The fatter of the two, the sergeant, stood over Baker and fumbled his cuffs from his belt.

'Right, mate,' he said, with narrative inevitability. 'You're nicked.'

The bobbies bundled the two men into their patrol car as Sherlock and John trekked back across the square. Sherlock was feeling strange. He walked a little behind John, silent, trying to work out what was happening to him. There was an intense feeling inside his chest, like pressure building up, and he had a lump in his throat. His breathing was very fast, faster than his recent exertions should have accounted for. John was sidling along, still a little breathless, but he seemed perfectly alright. So what's wrong with me, Sherlock frowned to himself.

'Nice collar,' Watson called out to the policemen as they drove past, window rolled down, and waiving their thanks. He turned to Sherlock, heaved a sigh and grinned. 'Well, I think we can count that as a good day at the office.'

And there was the solution. So perfect. Right before his eyes. Sherlock was shocked he hadn't seen it. The wave rose up inside his chest as he stared at his friend, and those gentle grey eyes, and the sandy hair drenched in moonlight.

Sherlock never did anything on impulse. It might look that way to people who didn't know him, but he had always worked through the possible ramifications of every act before he took it. Now, as the tsunami crashed over him, he did something entirely out of character, completely without thought, without strategy. He reached out, gripping the sides of John's head and using his thumbs on his jaw to tip the doctor's face up to him, kissed him.

For a moment, John struggled. His hands came up and gripped Sherlock's upper arms. But then he seemed to relent, and his body softened, his mouth opening to receive the kiss.

And what a kiss! Sherlock had to admit he had little experience of such things, but right now he felt like he was on fire. It was so good. God, sooo gooood. John tasted so fantastic, of caramel and sweat and toothpaste and onions, and something else so delicious, so piquant, and too delicate to define. His mouth seemed to mould perfectly to Sherlock's lips, his eyelashes brushing Sherlock's prominent cheeks. The scent of his body filled Sherlock's nostrils, sweat and sandalwood deodorant and jasmine clothes softener and soft, wet earth. It was sublime.

I am standing here in the middle of a Cotswold village at nine o'clock at night kissing a man, an incredible, wonderful, awe-inspiring, surprising man. And it is the most fantastic, magnificent, thrilling experience of my life, Sherlock realised.

And then the kiss was over. They stepped back from one another, panting, their gazes locked.

Sherlock swallowed, suddenly aware that he was anxious.

But John grinned. 'I'm thirsty,' he said. 'I could murder a pint!'

'The perfect end to a good day at the office,' Sherlock replied, trying to sound nonchalant, and they turned and set off towards the pub, walking not too close, nor too far apart, and Sherlock's mind going at supersonic speed trying to work out what had just happened to him and why John hadn't decked him.


	2. Chapter 2

Property of: Chapter 2

The pub, where they were staying, was the sort of place that had fallen between staying as a village local, and morphing into the kind of gastropub that was popular with people from the city who came out to experience what they thought the country ought to be. There were horse brasses and regulars, but the menu included ostrich burgers and venison.

Sherlock strode up to the bar. 'Two pints of your finest ale, please, landlord,' he ordered. The barman, a fat man with slicked back hair and a sardonic expression, looked him up and down and then turned to John.

'What's this, Withnail and I?'

'What on earth is he talking about,' Sherlock hissed out of the side of his mouth at John.

'Never mind, it's your coat. I'll explain later.' He gave the man his most delightful smile. 'Don't mind him, he's a bit eccentric.'

The barman grumbled, but nevertheless pulled them a pint each. John downed his in one, much to Sherlock's disbelief and ordered a second with a whisky chaser.

'Are you feeling alright?'

'Perfectly,' John said, knocking back his short. Sherlock watched the muscles in his neck flex as he threw back his head, and thought: I could watch him do that all night.

It transpired that the kitchen was shut, and the ostrich burger chef had gone home, but John managed to charm the landlady into knocking them up some cheese and onion toasties. They sat down in the corner of the bar and ate ravenously. Sherlock felt like food had never tasted this good. John seemed perfectly relaxed. Perhaps it was the whisky. Or the adrenaline. Whichever. The important thing was that he seemed perfectly un-phased by Sherlock's sudden amorous attack. They chatted as happily as they always did, and then John yawned, and said he thought it was time to turn in, so they climbed the stairs behind the bar to the rooms they had booked for the night, and bid one another a good night's sleep.

Sherlock rather liked his room. It was large and surprisingly empty in that 'newly decorated by a professional interior designer' kind of way. It smelt pleasant and clean, and he could walk around without ducking under beams, which he had to do in the bar downstairs. There was a large en suite shower room, too, which felt cool and satisfying. Staying in places like this always made him rather disappointed with himself, though. He wanted to live a minimalist life, in a home empty of clutter and carefully designed, full of rooms just like this one, calm and without distractions, but his insatiable interests got in the way of that dream, and left him living like a tramp with a voracious obsession for collecting rubbish. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, with its big bed decked out in crisp white sheets, and nothing else, he wondered how John could bear to live with him. Or rather, with his mess. He resolved to try harder at being tidy and began to strip, carefully hanging his suit up in the wardrobe. But then he peeled off his shirt and dumped it on the floor with his socks and shoes in a heap, and went off to the bathroom to wash and clean his teeth.

There was a knock at the door. He still had his toothbrush in his mouth when he opened it, dressed in nothing but his boxers.

'Er- oh.' It was John. He was bundled up in a dressing gown and pyjamas.

'What?' Sherlock said, scrubbing, knowing his mouth was ringed with white foam. 'Is something wrong?'

John looked sheepish. 'Can I come in for a minute?'

Sherlock stood back to let him through, and closed the door. He continued scrubbing.

'What is it?'

'Do you want to finish-' John waived his hand rather vaguely at Sherlock's mouth.

'This? Oh, if you like.'

He stalked into the bathroom to spit and rinse, emerging wiping his face with the little hand towel. 'Now?'

'Er, you forgot something.' Was it Sherlock's imagination, or was John actually blushing?

'What?'

'Er, you forgot to kiss me good night.'

Sherlock felt heat bloom across his body. Suddenly he realised he was almost naked. And that John was looking at him. Raking his body with his eyes, in fact. He swallowed loudly, and tried to steady himself, hoping against hope that his increasing arousal wouldn't be obvious through the thin cotton jersey of his pants.

'Well, can't have that, can we?'

He reached out for John again, cupping his rounded cheeks in his hands, and drew his face in. John was already closing his eyes in anticipation. Sherlock felt his knees go weak. He willed himself to stay upright, willed himself not to mess this up. He brushed his lips against John's delicately, and the doctor sighed, and parted his, tipping his head up to receive Sherlock's mouth. Oh, it was bliss. That perfect connection of skin and nerve endings. How could mere biology produce such wonderful tremors in his body, Sherlock wondered.

As before, their bodies were not touching, their mouths alone in contact, but it seemed this time such distance was not enough for John. He pulled Sherlock against him, his hands sliding up the taller man's long back. He let out a sigh. Sherlock slipped his tongue between John's lips, just the tip, just an experiment, but John gulped at it hungrily. His body was warm through the soft towelling cocoon of his robe.

And then it was over, as naturally and simply as it had begun. Sherlock lifted his head up to look into the eyes of the man in his arms.

'Goodnight, sweet prince,' he whispered.

The tenderness in John's eyes stopped his breath in his throat. John reached up on tip toes and kissed the end of Sherlock's nose.

'Sleep tight,' he breathed. And then he was gone. Sherlock stared at the door that had closed behind him, his head spinning. Had he dreamt that? Or had it really happened? He licked his lips. No, it had happened. He could taste John's toothpaste, and the faint ghost of the whisky that still lingered on his tongue. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms and began to spin round and around on his toes, as high as a kite.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm enormously grateful to those who have commented – but still desperate for more reviews. (I feel a bit like Lisa Simpson jumping up and down and screaming 'Grade me! Grade me!') This chapter is a bit wordy, but I think it needs to be to establish Sherlock's state of mind. Don't worry, its fluffy at the end. Please let me know what you think, even if you think its crap! (And I'm starting to get the hang of the document editor now, sorry for the bloopers in earlier chapters!)

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><p>Sherlock woke with the sun. It was a sharp, bright morning, rimed with frost. The building was silent. He crawled into his clothes and crept out onto the landing to press his ear to John's door. A gentle snore came from within. Good. He could have a little time to himself. He went down the stairs, let himself out through the side door, and set out through the village in search of self-knowledge.<p>

He was not the only person about. The school run had begun. A milkman was delivering. Bottles clinked. A ginger cat sat on a doorstep, blinking in the sun. Sherlock slid along the pavements in his city shoes and turned in at the lychgate to explore the churchyard. He was fond of churchyards. This one was a particularly nice example, well kept and elegant with the local honey stone, and a fine twelfth century church, squatting in the middle. The longish grass was crisp with frost, the tombstones crazed with frills of lacy crystals. He stalked about reading inscriptions and calculating ages, then worked out the average age of the dead in his head for an amusement. He sat on a mausoleum to laze in the sunshine and eat the little packet of biscuits that came with the coffee and tea tray in his room. They were sickly and crumbly. He thought how nice a cup of tea would be. A cup of tea in bed. He lay back on the slab and crossed his legs, and reflected on the idea of John bringing him a cup of tea in bed. He had done it so many times, and Sherlock had never considered it as anything worth thinking about, had taken it for granted with the faintest grunt of thanks in response. He closed his eyes and looked through the pink veined lids at the brilliant sky. How nice it would be to wake up with John, he thought, with that warm, cuddly body against him. How nice it would be to have John bring him a cup of tea in bed, how much more he would appreciate it now.

He thought about John in that thick towelling robe that he insisted on taking everywhere. He thought about what it would be like to lift that flocked fabric from those shoulders and slide his hands over what lay beneath it, warm flesh, firm muscle, so satisfyingly resistant to his fingertips. He thought about John's eyelashes, remembering how they had brushed against his skin, tickling. He thought about how that might feel against the skin of his chest. He thought about John's mouth. Oh, yes. That delicious, thin-lipped mouth, a little curved, turned down very slightly at the corners in repose, and how it turned up so beautifully when he laughed. He thought about John's eyes, sad eyes, blue-grey with flecks of ochre in them, and the way they crinkled up at the corners when he smiled. He thought about how wonderful it was to find such joy in the little details of another person's face, how happy it made him to see that face, even when it was grizzled with sleep or twisted with rage at something ridiculously thoughtless he himself had done. Which led him onto the memory of John in the morning, padding around the flat – again, that damn dressing gown – with his hair all spikey and his eyes full of sleep. Sherlock realised he loved the way John's face was pouchy when he woke up, the way he was puffy around the eyes in the morning, his cute, round nose slightly red. And then the memory of John sleeping, or rather John falling asleep on the sofa after a long day, snuffling into the cushions like a small child. Gravity and relaxation softened his features then, Sherlock had noticed, giving him a boyish look.

A magpie chattered in a nearby tree. Sherlock's back was getting cold. He sat up and wrapped his arms around his body, looking about. His breath condensed in the cold air. He amused himself by chuffing like a train, making a stream of little fat clouds that hung around him. But the thought of John was still in his head, like a lingering scent.

What was happening to him? What was he going to do? John did not appear overly concerned by last night's adventures in tonsil hockey. Perhaps the later example was the effect of the whisky. Sherlock wondered if he might get another go soon. But John had been very strenuous in asserting his status as a confirmed heterosexual. And Sherlock, well, Sherlock was frankly uncertain as to what he was. He'd never been interested in finding out. Right now, sitting in the churchyard, contemplating the delights hidden by that wretched towelling dressing gown, this seemed to Sherlock to be a gaping hole in his education. He wished fervently that he had made more effort, so that he might be in a better position to ensnare Mr Right now he had finally appeared. Because Sherlock was in no doubt. John _was_ Mr Right. The love of his life. He had enough self-knowledge to understand that he was never going to feel this close to anybody else. In 34 years, John was the only one who had even vaguely attracted his attention, or remained remotely tolerant of him for more than half an hour. Opportunities like that didn't come along more than once in a lifetime.

But would John accept his advances? Sherlock had very little idea of how one actually made love. Of course he knew the technicalities, but the practical subtleties were a different matter, and the details of sex between men were even more of an impenetrable mire to him. He had entirely relied on instinct and what he had gleaned from John's favourite films for his kissing knowledge. He was sure that would not be possible were he to attempt a full scale seduction.

Worse still, he did not want to risk losing John's friendship with a failed attempt. If Sherlock threw himself at John, and John rejected him, how would he ever face him again? But the fact he had to face was that something had changed within him, and it wasn't going to change back. He was in love with John. He wanted John. It was totally insane but there was no escaping it.

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><p>The man in question was sitting at a table in the bar when Sherlock got back, tucking into toast, coffee and orange juice.<p>

'Oh,' he said, looking up. 'I thought you were still in bed.'

'Went for a walk.' Sherlock peeled off his mammoth overcoat and stamped his feet to warm them before he sat down opposite the doctor at the little table.

The landlady bustled up. 'Full English for you, too, Mr Holmes?'

'Oh, yes please, that would be perfect.'

'Enjoy your walk?'

'Excellent, thank you. Perfect way to work up an appetite.'

She laughed. 'Oh, we like a man with a good appetite here!'

When she had gone, John leaned across the table. 'Sherlock, what's wrong?' he hissed.

Sherlock frowned. 'Nothing.'

'You're being nice.'

'Can't I be nice occasionally? It's a nice day after all, and I'm feeling nice.'

John looked sceptical and bit into his toast. Sherlock had to look away. He couldn't face looking at those lips puckered around a full mouth, smeared with marmalade, just begging to be licked off. He had to clear his throat and shuffle in his seat before his hands felt steady enough to reach out for his own toast.

'So, what's the plan now?' John asked, pouring some coffee for both of them.

'Back to London. Next case.' He sank his teeth into the sticky slice he had prepared.

John stared at him.

'What?'

'You have-'

'What?'

'On your cheek-'

'Where?' Sherlock stuck out his tongue uncertainly and slicked it around the corner of his mouth. John's cheeks pinked slightly.

'No, it's just-'

'Here?'

'Further-'

He stuck his tongue out even further. John looked suddenly a little flustered.

'Here, let me-' He reached out and slid his index finger over Sherlock's cheek, scooping up the sticky smear. And then, to Sherlock's disbelief, stuck his finger in his own mouth and sucked it clean.

They stared at one another.

'Here we are!' The Landlady said, putting their breakfasts in front of them. 'Be careful, the plates are very hot. Would you like some ketchup?'

'Brown sauce, please,' John said absently, still staring at Sherlock.

When she had bustled off, Sherlock swallowed loudly. 'Food,' he said, and his voice came out rather shaky and high. John cleared his throat and tore his eyes away, looked down at his plate as if it were an alien thing.

'I need to eat,' he said. 'Too much whisky last night, I think.'


	4. Chapter 4

Welcome to chapter 4, dear readers. Well, I think we are getting somewhere now – could be about to get steamy! However, I think after this week's regular postings, there might be a bit of a break - I'm still working on the next phase, and I'm not exactly sure whether I am getting the tone right, and also where I am going with it. Trying to take note of your feedback as I go along too. But I wanted to leave you on a bit of a cliff-hanger at this point. Please let me know what you think!

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><p>The week that followed was normal by any standards, except Sherlock's. Un-distracted by a case, he writhed in internal misery. John had not made any further request for a good night kiss. He had not referred to the encounter again. Sherlock had watched him with an unparalleled intensity but could not work out what was going on inside the little man's head. By the time seven days had elapsed, Sherlock was beside himself.<p>

He was sitting on the sofa working his way through a particularly turgid monograph on the life cycle of the grave fly when things came to a head. For once, John was not watching tv. He was fiddling about trying to mend the handle of his briefcase, which had broken on the bus on the way home from the surgery, spilling papers all over the bus floor. His mood had not improved since he got back, and the more he wrestled with the handle, the worse he huffed and puffed. And the more pink his face became, the more Sherlock squirmed in his chair, tortured by the Priapic erection he had been carrying around all week. John looked so utterly shaggable, he realised, and then was shocked by the use of such a term inside his own head. But it was true, the way the doctor had flushed even to the tips of his neat little ears. In the end, Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore.

'John, there's something I need to tell you.'

John growled as the plastic halves of the handle came apart yet again despite liberal applications of Superglue.

'Damn it!' he shouted at it, and threw it across the room in frustration. 'What is it, Sherlock?'

Sherlock wriggled miserably. This was definitely not the right moment. John would be unlikely to be receptive in this mood.

'I have some acetone if you would like to clean the two halves properly.'

'Do you know what? I just can't be arsed!' The tube of superglue skittered across the table top and John folded his arms so tightly he looked as if he had tied himself in knots. No, definitely not the right time, Sherlock concluded. He huffed and tried to concentrate on the gravefly's pupation stage.

John got up and started crashing about in the kitchen. Sherlock heard him pull a bottle of beer from the fridge and slam the door. There was the hiss as he prized off the lid. He came back, leant on the door sill petulantly, and slurped at the bottle, his lips encircling its neck so erotically that Sherlock nearly dropped his book.

'I need a new briefcase,' John said, as much to himself as to his flatmate. 'Make do and mend can only get you so far.'

Sherlock twisted in his seat, feeling his cheeks redden.

'What's up with you?' John asked him.

Sherlock grunted. He crossed his long legs, trying to hide his embarrassment. John growled something, and stormed back into the kitchen. Sherlock heard the base of the beer bottle skitter in the sink, and the cupboard door open. He knew that sound. John never went into that cabinet unless he was desperate. It was where he kept his whisky. For medicinal purposes, he always claimed to his flatmate. John only drank it when he'd had a bad nightmare, if Sherlock had been especially stupid and risked his own life on a case, or when they had both barely escaped from some near miss with their lives. He remembered the whisky at the Cotswold pub, the frisson of peated scotch on John's tongue during that goodnight kiss. John must be really upset about something to have got the bottle out. Conscience pricking, Sherlock levered himself out of his chair, and waddled to the door, trying hard to hide his swollen crotch with the book.

Glass clattered on glass. The crystal tumbler Harry had given John the previous Christmas chimed as John poured an extensive slug, his hand shaking so much that the neck knocked on the rim. John picked up the glass, hefted it in his palm, and knocked the contents back, hissing air in through his teeth as the spirit burned its way down his throat. Sherlock was treated once again to the view of the sinews in John's throat standing out, the stretch of muscles in his jaw, and for one dreadful moment, Sherlock's eroticised brain transferred that over-extension to an image of John gulping something entirely different, and his legs nearly buckled under him.

John hadn't finished, however. He slammed the glass back onto the crumb-strewn counter and sloshed more scotch into it, several fingers deep. And knocked it straight back.

Now Sherlock was getting genuinely concerned.

'John?' The name came out as a whisper.

John struggled with the burn again, grimacing, his head down, hands holding onto the work surface so hard that his knuckles turned white.

'John, whatever it is-'

'Jesus, Sherlock,' John growled.

Sherlock waited, suddenly afraid. Afraid that his world was about to cave in, because there was something very scary about his flatmate when he was like this, brooding, almost foreboding. He watched the muscles in the doctor's jaw working, teeth grinding. Something was coming, and Sherlock was almost ready to scream with the tension of waiting for it.

John cleared his throat. 'What are we doing here?'

'What- what do you mean?' Sherlock realised he sounded hesitant. Shaky, even.

John didn't look up. 'Us,' he said. His breathing was very laboured, every muscle in his body tense. 'I need to know. Because I'm in deep here, Sherlock. Really, very deep. So if you are going to break my heart, I'd really rather you got on and did it right now, so we can get it over with, because so help me, I can't stand this any longer.'

For a moment, the detective couldn't breathe, actually could not make his lungs inflate, or his nostrils dilate and suck in air. His heart was pounding in his ears. His precious brain seemed to have gone offline. He rummaged about, trying to work out some kind of coherent response, but since nothing came, he gave in and let his body take over. His foot extended, as if to take a step forward.

'Stop, Sherlock. Just stop.' John's voice was taut, thrilling. 'One more step, and I won't be able to stop myself. One more step and we can never go back. Never. You need to understand that.'

And that was the moment he finally looked up and fixed the detective with his steely stare. His eyes had changed colour, from their usual delicate blue-grey to a dazzling stormy indigo. A small vein under his eye was standing out, throbbing. The crests of his cheeks were pink, the rest of his face drained and ashen.

'What will you do, John?' Sherlock heard his own voice and realised words were coming out without any conscious intervention on his brain's part. 'If I step forward, what will you do?'

John's big chest was heaving. He was still clinging onto the cabinet's surface like a drowning man, glaring at Sherlock. But then he let go and turned his body, standing up straight, and Sherlock felt the full force of his charisma, that power that had carried his men into battle with him, the physical, almost palpable sensation of masterful energy that fumed off an apparently little man who had suddenly turned into a god before his eyes.

'I will take you, Sherlock. I will possess you.' His voice was husky and deep, rasping and oozing sex. 'I will rip every stitch of cloth off you and I will lick every inch of your skin, and I mean _every_ inch. I will kiss you until you can't breathe, and I will throw you on that bloody kitchen table and fuck you to within an inch of your life, and when you come, Sherlock, and you will, eventually – because I will make damn sure it takes a lifetime and that you are begging me for mercy by the time I let you – when you come, it will be _my_ name you scream, because you will be mine, Sherlock, inside and out, now and forever, and I will never, _ever_ let you go.'

How Sherlock did not faint at that point he could not understand. He had gone beyond conscious thought, beyond any kind of rationality or meaning. It was the siren song of John's voice that he responded to, passing into a kind of Nirvana of desire, surrendering himself body and soul to the man in front of him.

'Yes, John,' he heard himself murmur. 'Yes.'

And he took that last step forward.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, after a *major* wobble of confidence yesterday, I decided to go with what I had already. I hope you like it. Please be gentle. This is proving to be quite an odyssey!

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><p>He had been watching John sleep for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the barely perceptible flare of his nostrils, the tender shiver of those long eyelashes. So beautiful. But his heart was breaking. And as soon as John opened his eyes, blinking away sleep, he saw it in Sherlock's face.<p>

John stared up at him for what seemed like forever, while Sherlock wondered what he was going to say, what excuses he would make, how he would account for the lie.

'You know,' he murmured eventually.

Sherlock nodded.

'I wondered how long it would take you to work it out.'

Sherlock just stared down at him, his cheeks burning. He felt sick. He realised he was waiting for something more.

'I'm sorry.'

'Yes.' And then Sherlock went on, 'You should have told me.'

'I gave my word.'

Of course. Sherlock should have known. It was an army thing. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, turned his back to the man who had become the centre of his universe. He was shaking. Oh, the green eyed monster, he thought with an inward groan.

'You _could_ have told me.'

'I promised, Sherlock. What happens in country, stays in country.'

'I wouldn't have told anybody.'

'That's not the point.' He laid a hand on Sherlock's arm, so tenderly that the detective could barely stop himself from screaming. He shot to his feet, paced about, then finally came to a rest by the door, his back to John, unable to look at him. He rested his head against the cool of the wall, trying to think rationally.

'Of course,' he managed, starting to feel vicious. 'I should have realised. How could you be so good otherwise? Basra, was it? How many times? How many where there? One? A dozen? The whole bloody battalion?'

'Sherlock, for God's sake!'

'You lied to me, John!'

'No, I never lied. You never asked. You assumed. You assumed that just because it was the first time with a man for you, it was the first time for me too!'

Sherlock stifled a sob.

'Look, it was just one affair, and it didn't mean anything. You don't know what it's like. Your body does things when you are under fire, things you could never imagine doing otherwise. We were three days and nights being shelled continuously – you can't imagine what that does to a man, Sherlock. The terror. The fever, the roaring desire to live. It's like a wildfire, there's nothing you can do to stop it! You cling to whoever is nearest, but what you're really doing is clinging onto life. Life, Sherlock!'

Sherlock pressed his head to the wall so hard he could feel it bruising.

'I need-' The room was spinning. Then his memory threw him a lifeline. Words his flatmate always used when they argued, when Sherlock knew he was being insufferable. It was cruel to turn them back on John, but he didn't know how else to escape. He scrabbled up his clothes. 'I need some air.'


	6. Chapter 6

Immense thanks to everyone who has commented, I'm so grateful for your support, and such useful crit. I've taken account of them in this new chapter, so I hope I'm getting a little closer to the arrogant Sherlock we all know and love. And yes, I'm holding out on the full shagging until the final moment. Just a little titillation today. Enormous thanks to the sainted verityburns and Atlin Merrick, masters of the genre for their inspiration for this thread. You are wonderful.

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><p>He had no idea where he had been when he fetched up at the little coffee shop in Spitalfields around lunchtime. His feet hurt. He had been walking for four hours, but it felt like forty days and forty nights. To begin with he had kept walking to get away from John, but he had to go on to distract himself from the gruelling pain in his thighs and glutes, unused to such targeted exercise as they had been subjected to since John's whisky binge. And, he had to admit, from the searing throb in his backside that resulted from repeated penetrations, however blissfully erotic they had been at the time. His bum hurt and he kept walking because he couldn't bear to sit down. In the end he had no choice – it was sit down or fall down. Luckily the coffee bar had tall stools, and he perched on the edge of one with relief and sipped at a cappuccino.<p>

The coffee tasted oily in his mouth. There was no pleasure in it, no pleasure in anything much without John, he realised. John and pleasure went together in his mind now. Followed by the sour taste of betrayal and jealousy. He was miserable. He wanted John but not the John stuck in his head, the John who had fucked someone else, the John who had kept that secret from him.

Why had he not seen it before? It was so starkly obvious. John was a sensual creature, a man who inhabited his body as thoroughly as Sherlock inhabited his mind. It was only natural that he should have taken it to places that Sherlock's own spare frame didn't even know existed. At least until last night.

The movie reel played in his mind over and over again. John's strong, capable hands on his skin. John's mouth. Oh God, John's mouth! The strength in his hips and thighs. The ecstasy.

He'd been as good as his word, that compact little man, with his sensual mouth and his hungry fingers. Sherlock had given himself up without another word, and been swept away on the tidal wave of John's desire. Thrust onto his back on the kitchen table, cups and plates flying, John had scrambled up onto the tabletop on his hands and knees and then ravished – that was the only word for it – Sherlock's mouth. Then he had gripped Sherlock's shirt and ripped it open, buttons pinging left and right.

And then he had ravished Sherlock's body too. With his mouth. With his hands. With his skin. And with his cock. Oh God, that cock! How had he failed to work that one out? He'd lived with the little doctor for months, watched him intently all that time, thought he knew every curve and indentation, at least on his clothed form, but somehow John had managed to conceal that considerable girth. Perhaps that was what those ghastly sweaters were for. When Sherlock had taken John in his mouth, his jaw had ached from over-extension, and he'd gagged from the sheer volume of him. When Sherlock had taken him inside his body, his brain had virtually exploded with sensory input.

'God, John, you're so bloody big!'

'Flatterer!'

It had been Sherlock's last coherent sentence of the night.

It was only afterwards, after the white storm of passion had stilled, after they had sunk into torpor amidst sweat-soaked sheets, that Sherlock's mind had begun to function again, and the red flags it had been waiving all along suddenly made sense.

John had done this before.

With someone else.

Sherlock doubled up over his coffee, and groaned.

'Are you alright, love?' A woman sipping a tall latte at the table next to him looked concerned.

'Indigestion,' he croaked.

'Glass of milk, that's what you want,' the woman told him, knowledgably.

Not that kind of milk, Sherlock thought. His belly ached, but it was not for food or chalk tablets. It was for John.

What had he done? He'd messed it up, good and proper this time, as their old nanny used to tell him when he'd been naughty. As usual. Just inches from the thing he most wanted in all the world, and his stupid jealousy had got the better of him.

He tried to straighten up, body and mind, nostrils still full of the memory of John's scent, that rich aroma of sweat and semen and wet earth that so thrilled him. Think, Sherlock, Think! What do you really want?

The answer came back like a shout inside his skull.

JOHN!

So, does it matter that he's been with another man – maybe other men, plural? He's been with women too, after all. Why does it matter about the men more?

Sherlock knew that too. Really, he was being unusually self aware this morning, he congratulated himself. Maybe it was the meat injection in the arse, he smiled, remembering John's crude little phrase.

The other man/men mattered because even if John didn't compare them, Sherlock did. He needed to know John wanted him more. He needed to know he was better in bed. He needed to know he was better – full stop.

John's words came back to him:

_ Look, it was just one affair, and it didn't mean anything … You cling to whoever is nearest, but what you're really doing is clinging onto life._

It didn't mean anything. How could Sherlock be sure? He couldn't, that was the gamble. That was what made it dangerous. But didn't he love danger? Wasn't he addicted to it, the way he had been to heroin?

Then John's other words came into his head, those passionate words in the kitchen, John's voice husky with lust.

_ You will be mine, Sherlock, inside and out, now and forever, and I will never, ever let you go._

Now and forever. Inside and out.

That was what he wanted. Next to that, a few shags in a dusty trench on the other side of the world were meaningless.

Oh, John.

An enormous truck rumbled past in the street, rattling the coffee shop windows, and suddenly Sherlock was back in London, back in the real world, the memories crowding his brain instantly dissipated like so much mist.

He'd fucked up. He'd risked losing John because a stupid fit of jealousy. He had to find a way to make it right. A solution. He looked around himself for inspiration.

He used to like Spitalfields in the old days, before it became trendy. He had enjoyed its seediness, that broken down, worn out, bombed quality it had retained from decades of neglect. Now, it had been colonised by media whores and bankers who liked loft living and Mies van der Rohe chairs. The shops he could see from his perch said it all. An art gallery, the showroom of an up and coming furniture designer, an organic deli, and a luxe boutique specialising in high end lingerie and designer sex toys – iFucks, John would probably call them. Oh, and then there was –

And it was then that the idea formed in his head, faultless, sharp edged and irrefutable, reflecting the light of his own brilliance as surely as the lead crystal of John's whisky tumbler. The perfect solution.


	7. Chapter 7

Humble thanks to everyone who has made this story a Favourite, and to everyone who has reviewed. I was dancing around the sofa last night, hooting, when my husband came in and demanded to know what had got me so happy! This story just won't quit, it seems. I spent all weekend pounding away at it, and I dread to think how many chapters its going to run to… Anyway, here's a bit of fluff to keep you going.

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><p>'What the hell?' John leapt to his feet and scrambled towards Sherlock in horror. The detective let him pluck at his bloody collar.<p>

'Bit of a problem with a beaker at the lab,' he shrugged. (A simple little lie – a nick of the finger with his pocket knife had provided a sufficient amount of blood.) 'Turns out they explode if you-'

John had pulled back the collar and discovered the dressing underneath. 'Dear God! What have you done?'

'It's okay, the doctor at the A&E-'

'Let me see.'

Sherlock's hand shot up. 'No!' Then he saw the look of shock in John's face, and recovered. 'It's a new kind of dressing, an experimental one. It has to stay on for seven days. Impregnated with enzymes, speeds the healing process so you don't scar.'

'Rubbish! I'm going to-' John was already picking at the edge of the adhesive strip with his nail. Sherlock pushed his fingers away.

'Absolutely not! You're always telling me to follow doctors' orders, so now I am. No argument. Seven days.'

They glared at one another. John relented.

Sherlock's heart lifted. 'Anyway, never mind what I've been up to, what about you?'

John looked at the cigarette in his fingers as if it was news to him. 'Oh,' he said.

'You got that out of my drawer,' Sherlock accused.

He shrugged. 'I wanted to do something really self-destructive,' he said. 'Haven't smoked since I was thirteen.'

'If that's your idea of _really_ self-destructive, then I am very relieved you have such a dull imagination.' Sherlock took the fag off him and took a long drag, sucking his cheeks in deliberately. He blew smoke at the ceiling.

'God, I miss that.'

'Don't get used to it,' John said. 'I'm going to pour acid on the rest.'

'It's my back-up pack!'

'No, Sherlock!'

'That's rich, coming from you!'

Sherlock realised his arm had snaked around John's waist entirely of its own accord. John's hand strayed up and his fingertips ghosted across the faint bruise on Sherlock's forehead.

'I'm sorry,' he said, gently.

'Not as sorry as I am.'

'I'm still angry at you.' Sherlock frowned, trying to look serious.

'I know.'

'Let's not talk about it now?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Mmmm.'

They kissed very softly, for a very long time, or as long as it took the cigarette to burn down below the filter, and singe Sherlock's fingers.

'Ow! Bugger!' He stabbed it into an abandoned mug on the coffee table.

'Here, let me see.' John examined the slender fingers carefully, and then licked them.

'John, I really, really love you, but do we have to have making-up sex, because I don't think my ring-piece can stand any more.'

John giggled. 'You just said 'ring-piece'!'

'It's not that I don't love you-'

'Because you do.'

'Because I really, really do. But can we just cuddle?'

So they cuddled. On the sofa, watching crap telly, eating Chinese take away. And in John's bed, because it was a king size, and because he had put clean sheets on it. And it was a further storey away from Mrs Hudson's quarters, so as they were choosing a room to begin their life together in, they figured that soundproofing was going to be a significant factor from now on. And then they slept. Blissfully. In each other's arms.


	8. Chapter 8

Since everyone wants more sex, I've decided to stick two chapters together here so we can get on with it. So here, for your reading pleasure, is John's dark secret, and a rather loose bit of detection on Sherlock's part. Humping coming soon, I promise….

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><p>The next day they talked.<p>

Lying on their backs in bed. John had a cup of tea balanced on his chest. He stared at the ceiling.

'I need to know,' Sherlock told him.

'I still don't see why it's relevant. It has nothing to do with us.'

'It will put my mind at rest.'

'You aren't interested in the women I've slept with.'

'We'll get to them.'

'You seriously need to deal with this jealousy thing, Sherlock.'

'You know I'm not going to back down, so you might as well tell me now, or we are still going to be arguing about this when we're eighty.'

John turned his head slightly, and looked at Sherlock. 'You think we'll still be doing this when we're eighty?' He breathed the words, slightly in awe.

'Well, I'm not planning on going anywhere,' Sherlock told him. 'Now and forever, you said.'

'I did, didn't I.' John reached over and put the mug on the bedside table and then lay back. That ceiling must be really fascinating, Sherlock thought, but his stream of consciousness was interrupted by John's hand finding his, lacing their fingers together and squeezing.

'It started in Basra. We were coming back to Camp Bastion from setting up a field clinic. There was a unit of Irish Guards protecting us. We drove right into an ambush. It was when the insurgency was at its height. They had artillery. We called for an air strike, but everything was piling in on the other side of the sector where there was a major offensive going on. We were stuck there for three days, pinned down by snipers and shelling.

'It wasn't just us, I know that. Treat enough soldiers and you realise these things happen. I just never thought it would happen to me. It was nothing really, just a frantic bit of frottage to begin with. Two men hanging on to each other for dear life.

'When it was over, when we got out, we never said a word about it. We finished our tour and went home. He went back to his wife and I went back to, well, looking for Miss right.' He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, with an ironic glint. 'Waste of time that turned out to be!'

'Go on.' Sherlock squeezed his hand. He could see how difficult this was for John.

'Then we got posted to Afghanistan for the first time. It's different there. You have no idea the pressure you are going to be under till you're on the ground, doing it. Every step you take could be your last. IEDs everywhere. Suicide bombers everywhere. He was-' His voice trailed off as he tried to form the right words, words that wouldn't give Sherlock the ability to deduce who the man was. The detective could see him concentrating hard, controlling the emotions, sifting through the data, what could be told without a lapse of integrity.

'It just happened. I had no idea it was coming. Everything just escalated. One minute we were working together the way we'd always done, and the next … We didn't plan it. Ever. It just happened when it happened. Out on patrol, in dark corners on base, at night in the field, wherever the opportunity presented itself. We knew if we were caught – if the Afghans caught us - we'd be stoned. Or worse. But things were so bad, Sherlock, you have to believe that, so bad, that we didn't care.

'He had this reputation as a ladies man, and he played up to it, and I joined in. I watched him flirting with the nurses and the women soldiers. The lads loved it. It was all a huge joke. They never knew the truth. Half of the men were probably doing the same thing anyway, but everyone bought into the whole macho culture thing and nothing was ever said. We took the piss out of each another during the day, and fucked each other in terror of our lives at night.

'And then we came home. He had a baby by then. And I went back to, well, the girl I was seeing at the time, Louise. But I was already pretty damaged by that point, and she couldn't cope with it.

'And then we were posted back. It all started again. Him and me, working together by day, fucking at night, whenever we could. And then I was shot. He was there, he got me out. Saved my life. I'd have bled to death otherwise. He didn't do it because he loved me, Sherlock. He did it because it was his job. Because we were soldiers and that's what you do. You don't leave a mate in the shit.

'They came to visit me in hospital when the battalion came home, him and his wife. They had a toddler and a new baby by then. Of course, she knew nothing, about me or the nurses he'd been shagging. We just looked at one another, and I knew it was all done. I didn't see him again after that. Last I heard they were in Germany.'

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><p>There was a case. A body found in a suitcase in the boot of a car at the airport. Lestrade called Sherlock in on Wednesday afternoon, after it had been all over the news for two days, with Sherlock ranting at the television-<p>

'It's bloody obvious, you arseholes!'

Sherlock was relieved when the call came for other reasons, however. It was John's day off. He had spent the morning sitting at the table, tapping at his laptop and staring at Sherlock's neck. The detective could almost see his fingers itching.

'No,' he said firmly after a while, not looking up from his paper.

'I wasn't-'

'Yes. You. Were.'

John huffed.

'Sunday morning. You'll have to wait.'

John's responding salvo was to start tidying the flat, something he knew beyond doubt infuriated Sherlock. It was hard to tell which of them was more relieved when Lestrade rang just after lunch.

They dressed, piled into a cab and headed out to Heathrow, where Lestrade was waiting for them in baggage handling, hands thrust deep in his pockets, looking gloomy.

'They'll have my badge for this if I don't get it sorted,' he complained. 'After that business with the little boy they fished out the Thames, the press are all over us. It's hideous.'

'What did you do to your neck, Freak,' Sally Donovan asked as Sherlock stalked around the loading bay, examining the tacky pool where blood had leaked out of the suitcase and alerted the staff. He had left his shirt collar open as usual, and the position of the dressing was gratifyingly obvious just above his collar bone. 'Got bitten by a fellow undead?'

'Jealous, Sal?' Sherlock said, jauntily. 'If you're nice, I'll let you give me one to match on the other side!'

Donovan made mock-wretching noises.

'What's got into him,' Sherlock heard Lestrade mutter to John.

'I gave him a special injection last night,' John smirked, knowing full well Sherlock would hear and understand perfectly.

Sherlock couldn't help grinning like an idiot.

They went back to Scotland Yard and examined the suitcase, and then to the morgue at Westminster to look at the body. Or what was left of it. Female, missing head, arms and legs.

'Did you do an x-ray?'

'The pathologist's report-'

'She has a replacement hip. Unusual for one so young, but sometimes required. Judging by the scarring, it's the result of a major trauma, traffic accident most likely. The hip will have a serial number. Match it on the manufacturer's database and you'll have an identity. From there I am sure you can make a few reasonable deductions. Death by exsanguination, I presume?'

Lestrade nodded.

'Track marks in the groin. She probably started using to ease her pain. Find her dealer. Cuts from a large, sharp blade, probably a machete. Possibly Yardies, I wouldn't put it past them, but under orders from a higher authority. They wouldn't bother doing this much otherwise. The lengths they've taken to conceal her identity suggests she knew something very dangerous. The drugs squad have been chasing that Bolivian coca dealer for some time, haven't they? What's the tox report on her hair?'

'She hasn't got a head, Freak!' Sally snapped.

'She has hair in other places, doesn't she?' Sherlock snapped back.

'We haven't got anything back on that yet,' Lestrade admitted.

'Well, lean on them, then, since everyone is leaning on you. She may even have Bolivian connections herself, given her skin tone.'

'The suitcase was booked on a flight to Mexico City,' Lestrade supplied.

'They were shipping her back to Bolivia then. As proof of a job done? Or _wanting_ us to find her?' He was aware that he was unusually distracted, thinking aloud and on his feet, something he did not normally do because he hated the likes of Donovan being privy to his thought processes.

'Anyway, that should give you enough to be going on with. Now if you will excuse us, we have other fish to fry. John, shall we?'

Lestrade called after him in a hurt tone, 'Sherlock?'

'Are you really going to leave him like that?' John looked worried.

'You think I underestimate our friend Greg, but I don't. He's quite capable of working this one out, now I've given him a few threads to pull, and I'm sure he will benefit from his superiors viewing it as his own work. And I shall get you to myself for the remainder of the day.'

'How's your arse?' John asked impishly as he climbed into the taxi behind Sherlock.

'Oh, requiring another timely injection, I think, Doctor.'


	9. Chapter 9

Well, here we finally are, the moment of truth, when I find out if I can actually write this stuff. Please be gentle. You will find that I drop into present tense when things start hotting up. It's a deliberate strategy – I think it makes things more immediate, puts the reader directly into the scene. Let me know if you agree. Oh, and there's more to follow…

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><p>On Sunday morning, Sherlock slipped out of bed and left John sleeping. It was early and the bathroom was filled with the pearlescent haze of winter mornings. He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself. He was naked – they always slept naked these days. John said he needed to be able to reach out and touch Sherlock's skin in the night. Apparently it helped with the nightmares, though Sherlock was sceptical about this, since he didn't seem to have experienced one since they had taken up bed sharing.<p>

Sherlock was not under any illusions about his body. Everything about him was long and thin, something he had to get used to as a teenager when his first real growth spurt had started and then just didn't seem to stop. He had become one of those people who looked like they had been stretched on the rack. He was bony too, ribs like a toast rack, hips like plough shares. All bones and salt cellars, as Nanny used to say.

And he was covered in scars. Nothing like John's of course. That kind of scar tissue came from nothing other than life-threatening trauma, something Sherlock had been lucky to escape on several occasions, most recently during the pool incident. No, Sherlock's scars were subtle, they needed to be divined rather than seen. The scars on his arms and in his groins where he had injected himself during those miserable lost years. The seam across his belly from a childhood appendectomy. Various burns and scalds from experiments gone wrong. The notch in his thigh where the Lambeth cheese-wire killer had taken a chunk out of him while resisting arrest. Now he was adding another mark to his collection.

He took a long, hot shower.

The heat and water moistened the surgical tape just enough. He piggled it off with his fingernails. It left a white deposit on his skin. Underneath, everything was well healed. Perfect, in fact. He congratulated himself as he examined it closely in the shaving mirror.

Alert as usual, he heard movement. John was up, woken by the roar of the shower, no doubt. Everything going to plan then. He opened the bathroom door just a crack to confirm his suspicion, then called out.

'John! Can you come and look at this?'

There was a brief pause, and then the doctor came in, shutting the door behind him to keep the warm fug of steam in. Sherlock had carefully positioned himself with his back to the entrance, so John would not be able to see.

'Have you taken the dressing off? Sit down so I can get a better look.'

Sherlock sat obediently down on the lid of the lavatory and stretched his neck.

He heard the breath catch in John's throat. Shaking fingers reached out and brushed his shoulder. A faint whimper. He looked up and saw tears in John's eyes.

'Oh, my love, what have you done?' He murmured.

Sherlock grasped his hips and pressed his face into the doctor's soft belly.

'For you, John. Only you.'

It was a simple thing, and a small one. It had hardly taken any time at all, and had hurt much less than Sherlock had anticipated. Certainly much less than his backside had hurt that day. He had known exactly what he wanted, so there was no problem there. It started with the simple legend that John had embossed on his leather medical case, his passport cover, and on the dusty army kitbag that skulked in the bottom of his wardrobe. Sherlock had added two more lines himself, but the effect was very pleasing, he felt. Four lines of tiny, neat lettering in a rectangular frame at the base of his neck, just to one side, where the upright of his collar would cover it, but also where just a slight movement might reveal it to a casual observer. It read:

Property of:

Dr John H Watson RAMC

Inside and Outside

Now and Forever.

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><p>Sherlock presses kisses to John's fluttering belly, nuzzling the silky flesh, tugging the sandy blonde hair with his teeth. He strokes the satin skin of his lover's loins with the tips of his fingers and then presses his nose hungrily into the nest of John's pubic hair to inhale the delicious scent of him, so male, that aroma of lust and perspiration and damp that makes his mouth water. John makes a soft noise in the base of his throat. He is getting hard, more so as Sherlock pushes his nose in, taking long lungfuls of musk. A good, solid nose can be a sexual advantage, he has discovered.<p>

Then, when he is satisfied John is sufficiently aroused for his purpose, he lifts his head slightly and begins to nip at the base of his cock, the place where the corpora and veins meet amidst rumpled skin, the very root of John's sexual being. The place he knows turns John on the most.

The doctor lets out a moan and flops his head back.

Sherlock gnaws lightly, expertly, because he has recorded every response on every occasion and he knows, without any doubt, that this is what feeds John's desire the heat it needs to unfold into a roaring conflagration. He nibbles, runs the flats of his front teeth along the ridge, kisses, licks, and returns to nipping, oh so gently, so tantalisingly.

'Oh, God, Sherlock!'

He takes his time, letting the pressure build under his lips, until even he can resist no longer. He traces the corpora up with the flat of his tongue, rasping it over the sensitive fraenulum at the head, then lapping at the sticky fluid that has already spilled from the crown. Above him, John moans. He thrusts his solid fingers into Sherlock's curls and tugs, but Sherlock won't be hurried. He swirls his tongue around the swollen glans, then tightens its tip and presses it into the tiny slot at the top. John gasps. Then Sherlock swirls again, and caresses circles around the base of the head, where John's foreskin has rumpled up. It tastes slightly salty, and so, so good. Against his lips he can feel the throbbing of the blood as it rushes under the velvet skin. John thickens continually as Sherlock licks.

'Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, please!' He groans.

No point in denying either of them the pleasure any longer, Sherlock decides, and takes the magnificent shaft into his mouth. They both moan with the shock of the heat from it. The hard, heavy flesh resists Sherlock's teeth. He sucks gently, swirling his tongue again. He's getting so hard himself it is almost torture, sweet torture, but he isn't going to stop now because he wants John to have the biggest orgasm of his life. He's been planning this since he sat on his throbbing arse in that coffee shop in Spitalfields and now, lo, it has come to pass.

Still, that's a huge wad of meat to fit into even the biggest mouth, and Sherlock has to concentrate hard on relaxing his soft palate so his gag reflex doesn't kick in. Because now John's hips are starting to writhe and thrust. He is helpless in the face of Sherlock's onslaught. His head flops forward and his fingers tighten in the detective's hair. His other hand clutches at Sherlock's shoulder for balance. Sherlock decides to ramp things up just a little bit more. He slips a hand down and between John's legs, and the little man scoots his feet apart just slightly to accommodate him. Sherlock strokes and rolls John's balls, then probes behind them and reaches the perineum. John starts to pant. Sherlock's fingers begin a relentless caress, in tandem with a renewed sucking and the introduction of just a little tooth.

'Oh yes, yes,' the doctor moans, thrusting harder now. He is getting so tight, so hard. He can't last much longer.

Sherlock gives in. He wants it so badly, and John is thrusting so hard, virtually humping his face. He wants to take the entire length down his throat but he can't do that yet, even though he is trying, because his jaw hurts so much. So he just lets go, softens his lips and receives. And as he does, he slips his hands around to John's magnificent buttocks and digs his nails in very, very hard.

John throws back his head again and lets out a strangled cry. And everything goes deliciously liquid.

Sherlock tips his head back and lets the gorgeous fluid pump down his throat, hardly tasting it at all. He sucks the last drop out and pulls away with a gurgle and a satisfied slurp.

John is shaking. His knees give out and he collapses into Sherlock's lap, a leg either side, and hangs on, head on the taller man's shoulder, trembling and sweating, while the last convulsions die.

'Oh, Sherlock,' he sighs when it is finally over.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock turns out to be a size queen – who knew? But I couldn't leave him high and dry, could I? He has to get his just 'desserts'! Verityburns, as far as I know, is the originator of the expression 'liquid sin', but I loved it so much, I had to borrow it. Credit where it's due – which should also go to Messrs Gatiss and Moffat, and of course, Conan Doyle, for the splendiferous gorgeousity that is Sherlock and Watson. I don't own any of it. I wish I did.

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><p>Since when did the navel become a sexual orifice, Sherlock wonders, as John tongue-fucks his belly button. There certainly seems to be a direct electrical connection between his navel and his genitals because that thrusting tongue is sending shocks right down the core of his cock, and Oh, Jesus, that is sweet.<p>

They are in John's bed, to which Sherlock half led, half carried his sex-shocked lover after their bathroom encounter. He lowered John into the sheets and kissed him, long and slow, until his heart rate calmed and his eyes began to focus again. Since then, John has been working on Sherlock's belly like a man possessed. Its heaven.

But then he stops, and Sherlock is subjected to a surge of disappointment as he wriggles up until he can look down into the detective's eyes.

'What do you want, Sherlock,' he whispers. His voice is liquid sin.

He looks down over Sherlock's body, hungrily. Sherlock, though, is transfixed by the look on his face, hard and yet soft, utterly implacable, totally debauched.

'Whatever you want.' Those beautiful eyes have turned that indecent indigo again. Sherlock understands what he is saying, what he is offering, but he can't take it.

'No,' he breathes. 'I can't. It has to be you, John. Only you.'

'Then what?' John kisses his neck, nips it gently, sending thrills down Sherlock's spine. 'Whatever you want, my love, just say and I'll do it to you.'

Sherlock finds he is shaking. He has been fantasizing about this moment all week, but now it comes to it, he finds his cheeks are burning and the words won't come out of his mouth. John smiles down at him.

'Come on, after what you just did to me, you can't be shy!'

'No, it's just-'

'Tell me.'

Sherlock has to close his eyes because he's too embarrassed to look at John when he confesses what has been in his mind.

'I want to ride you,' he breathes. 'Bareback.'

There is silence. Sherlock opens his eyes to find John is staring back at him, and is amazed to see there is shock in those rounded features.

'Seriously?'

'I want to feel you come inside me. Naked.'

John just stares.

'I don't know why it's so important. It just is. Besides, we both know we're safe. You've had no scruples coming in my mouth up until now, and you haven't been bothered when I come in yours-'

John just keeps on staring down into his eyes.

'John? Please say something?'

Then he realises it is not fear that has frozen the little man, but emotion. He had not comprehended the ramifications of his fantasy until now. The fact of dispensing with condoms means surrender to complete trust.

'You really want this?' John's voice finally comes out, gruff with tenderness.

'Yes.'

John kisses him hard, with more passion even than that first turbulent night, as if he is channelling his whole soul into his lips. Sherlock knows there will be no more discussion. John has given up everything. No more rules, no holds barred. This is love.

'Open me,' Sherlock whispers.

John pushes him over onto his belly. The contact of cotton sheet against agonised erection is intense and he groans helplessly, raising one knee to lift his pelvis a little. John starts kissing the back of his neck, making his hair stand on end deliciously. That narrow-lipped mouth works the skin, licking and kissing, gnawing on the projection of a shoulder blade, while fingertips stroke over his tender sides. John reaches down, caressing the backs of Sherlock's thighs, tracing little circles on the backs of his knees, so that he shivers with bliss. He kisses and licks all the way down Sherlock's back bone until his reaches the round globes of his backside, and then sinks his teeth in. Sherlock gasps and moans.

John is obsessed with his pert bottom, Sherlock realises. He kisses and nips and rubs and it is utterly wonderful. The detective feels like his cock will burst or drop off with the tension, maybe both. His balls hurt.

'Please, John,' he whimpers, even though that whole buttock-sucking thing he is doing is so thrilling.

John grips his hips in response, lifting Sherlock onto his knees and spreading out the long legs. He strokes the skin again, hips, thighs, bum, almost with reverence. Sherlock is just expecting a finger when instead he feels a squirming tongue, and he jumps with the shock of it. John licks a circle around his anus and then begins to press deep. That wonderful, slippery insertion! Sherlock's head is spinning. John is doing what he did to Sherlock's navel, and the detective's legs start to shake uncontrollably. He is panting now as John's hand slips between his legs and grasps the blood-weighted shaft.

'Not yet! God! Not yet!'

The hand withdraws reluctantly with a little tug of foreskin that forces a groan from both their lips. Instead, slick fingers replace the wriggling tongue, scissoring, twisting, opening. Sherlock can't help but press back against them. He has no idea how much longer he is going to last, and if John brushes his prostate just one more time – no, think, Sherlock think! He starts reciting the numerical value of Pi to as many decimal points as his fogged brain can recall, fighting to concentrate as John slips a third finger in and starts to fuck him with it mercilessly.

'Oh, God, now!' he cries out.

The doctor flings himself onto his back, and Sherlock crawls onto him, lowering himself down. He feels the pressure in his entrance, steels himself to concentration and relaxes his inner muscles. And bears down.

John moans.

It is incredible. Not the rubberised slither of before. Now he can feel every vein and rib against his sensitive sphincter as he pushes deep, taking it all, every last damn inch, higher, higher, and then lifts off and takes it again, and oh, my, God, it is incredible.

'So good…. So good….'

John's hands slide over his skin, his throat, his breast, his belly, his thighs. He pinches at Sherlock's nipples, twisting the hard brown nubs. He goes to grasp Sherlock's shaft, but the man on top can't bear it and bats his hands away.

It is so deep, so intense, this fucking. And now John is shaking with need, his hips thrusting under Sherlock, unable to hold himself back. Sherlock pumps his pelvis up and down, knowing there will be bruises later, knowing he will probably be barely able to walk for a week after this, this great hunk of meat ramming into him, and who the hell cares anyway because this is his John, his wonderful John, taking him and marking him and possessing him, and nothing, but nothing else can ever be as good as this.

Pi has reached thirty-seven decimal places when John grabs him and rolls. Suddenly Sherlock is on his back, being royally fucked, his cock bobbing and chafing against John's hairy belly. Frantically he grabs his own shaft, grips it, feels the tension begin to break, and then he cries out:

'John! John!'

A wail of love and desire.

And then something shifts between them, and they cease to be frantic, desperate. An erotic calm blankets Sherlock's heart. Face to face, they enter another realm, a place of surging emotion, too profound for words. Their bodies move, meld, became something else, a third being with a shared heart, and when they come, they come together, as one, wordless and silent, with tears flowing down their cheeks.

'I love you,' Sherlock says later, lying on his back, John panting beside him. 'I've loved you from the first moment you walked into the lab at Barts with that ridiculous stick of yours. And I know that I will be in love with you for the rest of my life.'

* * *

><p>Oh people, I am not finished yet…. Stay tuned!<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

Well, dear readers, here it is, the final instalment, and something of an epilogue, told from John's POV. I've been twiddling with it right up until the last minute, and I think there is still more to add, but not for now. I think I am through with this story. I hope you have enjoyed it, and I promise there will be lots more from me in the coming weeks. Thank you for coming out to play with me. With love, EF.

* * *

><p>The sense of burden that came from Sherlock's reaction to his having been with another man still rumbled under the surface for John. Guilt tugged at him. Sherlock seemed blithely unconcerned, but John found himself racking his brain for some way to prove his devotion. The idea finally came to him about a month after Sherlock's little ruse had been revealed. A patient by the name of Alan Peace had presented at the surgery with a nasty chest infection. Alan, or Mog as he preferred to be called, was an Illustrated Man. John liked him immediately, and Mog responded with enthusiasm when John showed an interest in his personal art form. Mog was a walking Hokusai print. He admitted that he had become fascinated with the Samurai at the age of 12, and a passion for Japanese art had followed. The two had wound together in his teens to form a painted rebellion on his skin. Billowing waves now encircled his arms, elegant geishas entertained their lovers on his belly, a Samurai brandished his sword on his back.<p>

'You never do your face, though,' Mog confided. 'Only nutters do their faces.'

John prescribed heavy duty antibiotics, advised against alcohol for the duration, urged the abandonment of tobacco, and asked if he might visit Mog at the premises of the tattoo parlour he had set up to pursue his passion.

It was impressively neat and clean, with the aura of an art gallery rather than the lurid haunt of the drunk and the bolshie. Mog showed John round proudly, answering detailed questions about blood safety and HIV protection, and then invited him to sit in the office for a cup of coffee.

'So what is it you want, then Doc? Regimental Tattoo?'

'What makes you think-'

'Oh, come on, we're men of the world, ain't we?' Mog pulled out a tobacco pouch and began making a roll-up. 'I know, I know. I've cut down. Believe me.'

'Oh, I do,' said John, although he didn't and knew Mog knew he didn't. 'Anyway, how did you know I was in the army?'

'RAMC on your instrument case,' said the eagle-eyed Mog. 'Me dad was a Para. He brought me up to respect you lads. Good blokes to have in a tight spot, he always said. He was in the Falklands.'

'Then he'd know.'

'Yep.' Mog licked the fragile paper and folded it down. 'So what did you have in mind?'

Feeling his ears pink, John explained. Mog's brow furrowed.

'You can't do it?' John felt a twinge of disappointment.

'Oh, no, its not that.' The tattoist lounged back in his seat, waiving his hand, with the unlit roll-up still pinched between his fingers, to emphasise his point. 'You wouldn't believe some of the bits of people I've tattooed. Just, well, there's stuff you gotta think about, right? Not being funny, but, is it for the particular recipient, or the casual reader? Underside or topside, if you know what I mean?'

'Oh, underside, definitely.' John was sure about that, at least.

'But you want it legible, right? Well, if its gotta be read in that condition, then you gotta be in that condition while I do it. Touch of the Jimi Hendrix, if you catch my meaning? Longevity will be your problem. And pain. It'll be much more painful than normal.'

'Pain won't be a problem. I'm used to that.'

Mog gave him a shrewd look. 'I'll bet,' he said. He pinched his nose ring speculatively. 'And concealment. If you want it to be a surprise.'

'Which I do.'

'Well then, doc, you just choose your moment and take care of the longevity issue, and I'll fit you in any time you want.' They stood up and shook hands, like city traders concluding a multimillion pound deal.

* * *

><p>It turned out to be Mycroft who provided the solution to John's concealment problem. He arrived at the flat a few evenings after the doctor's visit to Mog, with Lestrade in tow. The policeman was still glowing from his recent success on the 'body in the suitcase' case – three Yardies had been arrested, and as a bonus, the Bolivian cocaine merchant had been caught with them. The Drugs Squad were sulking. Lestrade was the name on everybody's lips at New Scotland Yard. And, as Mycroft explained, in Whitehall.<p>

'The F.O. wants the best, which is why they asked for Greg,' he said, glancing at Lestrade, who grinned with pride. 'And they asked for you, Sherlock, too. I did my best to dissuade them, but the minister was adamant.'

'I don't want to go to Paris,' Sherlock said, pouting.

'I'm sure Lestrade doesn't want to go to Paris with you either, and I _certainly_ don't want you to go, but a speedy resolution at the embassy is required. We can't have people thinking they can just bump off our diplomats willy-nilly, can we?'

'I want to stay with John,' Sherlock moaned.

'Oh, come on, Sherlock,' said John, seeing his chance. 'It'll only be for a couple of days, a week at the most, and after all, you've been moaning that your ring-piece needs a rest from me for weeks!'

Lestrade started to choke.

Mycroft's eyes watered very slightly. 'Rather too much information there, John, but the point is well made. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.' He got up, slapping his gloves on his overcoat hem irritably. 'I shall expect you to be on the 6am Eurostar tomorrow morning. As will Lestrade.'

When they had gone, John sat down on the sofa next to his lover, whose pout was magnificent. (Sherlock was invariably annoyed that his sulks only made John laugh.)

'I don't want to go to Paris,' he grunted.

'It'll only be for a few days.'

'You could come with me?'

'I've got to work.'

'Humpfh!' It was such a Sherlockian sound. John stroked the curls from the detective's creased forehead tenderly.

'We can go to Paris another time. Together.'

'The criminal classes will have a field day if they hear I've left the country.'

'Sherlock, I really think that is the most arrogant thing you have ever said to me.'

'Humpfh!'

In the end, he saw Sherlock and Greg off at St Pancras in the morning, and then rang Mog from the bus on the way to the surgery.

* * *

><p>John watched the Eurostar train slide into the station. It gave off a hiss of brakes like a relieved sigh. There was a moment suspended, as if the world was holding its breath, passengers seen crowding the gangways and lobbies of the carriages through tinted windows, their faces twisted with anticipation. Then the doors hissed open and people spilled onto the tarmac. There was the familiar rumble of wheeled suitcase, grunts as bags were lifted down, shrieks of laughter as friends were met, worried voices barking into cellphones.<p>

Then there was Lestrade, climbing down onto the platform a few carriages down, heaving his bag and pulling out the handle. He looked up and saw John, waived, his face brightening. John nodded.

Sherlock's pointed features emerged through the door a few seconds later, looking back up the platform towards the main concourse, scanning the crowd with his slotted eyes. John's heart leapt.

People were moving around him. He stood there, his body dropping automatically into 'At Ease' posture, locking his knees, feet apart. He was aware of clenching his fists in the small of his back as he tried to catch his breath. A breeze cut up the line, skipping in under the canopy of the station, ruffling Sherlock's curls as he stepped from the train and strode down the platform.

And then he was there, coming to a stop inches away, the hem of his overcoat flapping. John was vaguely aware of Lestrade beside him, speaking.

'Well, all done, great journey, you…er…' He must have realised neither of them was listening. His voice died. John felt him looking at them, his stare passing from one face to another.

'Right, well, I'll call you, Sherlock. Nice to see you, John.'

And he was gone.

They stood there, face to face, as the rest of the passengers passed them, the platform clearing. They stood there as the railway staff wheeled decimated refreshment trolleys down ramps from the buffet car, or loped along to attach water supplies between the carriages. John stared up into those almond eyes, as all the world faded from his consciousness, until they were alone on the echoing platform, until there was nothing else but Sherlock, and the beat of John's own heart.

That voluptuous mouth curved up into a smile. John's heart thrilled.

They continued to stare.

Then Sherlock whispered, 'Take me home.'

* * *

><p>They stumbled into the house, falling over themselves to get across the threshold. John grabbed at Sherlock and lifted him, heaved him over his shoulder and carried him bodily up the stairs, the detective giggling uncontrollably. The doctor threw him onto his back on the bed.<p>

'Missed me then?' Sherlock smirked, lying splayed out, his chest heaving.

'You have no idea,' John told him.

Sherlock sat up and began to tug at John's belt.

'Jesus, let me get my coat off, you maniac!'

'Coat is irrelevant,' Sherlock told him, his long fingers working fast. 'I don't need to undress you completely for that I'm going to do.'

John shivered with anticipation as Sherlock tugged at him, popping open his fly button. His head was spinning. He'd been thinking about nothing else but this moment all week, and now here it was, and he felt something of the flavour of what Sherlock must have, that frightening desire, the delicious anxiety. He reached down and slid his finger under his lover's collar, fingering the little blue smudge.

'You still like it?' Sherlock smiled up at him.

'Oh, yeah.'

Sherlock snaked his hand inside John's trousers, his fingertips stroking over the hard ridge of flesh.

'Mmmmmm.' John wasn't sure if he or Sherlock had made that sound.

'My mouth is watering,' Sherlock told John's cock.

'Help yourself,' John said, sounding a little husky.

Sherlock's capable hands slid the jeans off the doctor's hips, and massaged at his hard-on hungrily. John made a rumbling noise in the pit of his throat. He wanted this to go on, but at the same time was desperate for Sherlock to pull down his pants. It was agony. Sherlock craned down and bit at the bulge, tugging a little at the fabric. No, John had to choose getting on with it now, he just couldn't wait anymore.

'God, please, I've been waiting a week, for Christ's sake!'

Sherlock slid the waistband down a little and pressed a kiss on the satiny skin of John's lower belly. He nibbled at the hip bone.

'Stop teasing me!' John groaned. 'You've had a case to distract you, I haven't!'

Sherlock grinned up at him. And tugged the boxers down.

John watched his face intently. The moment of anticipation, the bleached blue eyes turning down, eyelashes soft and thick; the expression of expecting the expected, sensing difference, registering change, absorbing data; shock, disbelief, then awe, pride, passion, tenderness, and finally deep, deep love.

The mark was about the size of a postage stamp, a rectangle full of neat capitals on the underside of John's impressive erection. It was right at the root, that little patch of flesh that Sherlock seemed to so adore, on which he lavished so much time and patience, as if it was an entire microcosm of John's being. John had taken the words from Sherlock's moment of genius and reshaped them to speak what was in his heart.

Property of:

Sherlock Holmes Esq

Inside and Out

Now and Forever.


End file.
